


Navy Taxi

by Caledfwlch (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1834828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Caledfwlch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've begun to form a bit of an obsession with Calliope's ankles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Navy Taxi

**Author's Note:**

> there is never enough of this pairing in the world  
> this was originally posted on ffnet with a great deal many more typos so here we are with the slightly less (?) crap version  
> Lesbians 2.0

Your name is Roxy Lalonde and goddamn everything lurches ouch you are not okay wow everything is wrong okay that's okay and the vodka burns even more the way up, like friction like fire... choking?

You've felt this before.

The odorous bowl of the toilet rears up at you like the maw of the monster under your bed and your blurred, dizzy vision bumps you to the side where are your feet-

Nausea

You cough up your sins, your limbs practically vibrating with stress. Your vision is blank and you can't even breathe...

+

 

When you were a little kid, your mom would read to you all the time. You didn't understand it much, but you liked the sounds of the words.

+

 

Your name is Roxy Lalonde and you are a walking disgrace.

Or lying disgrace, as it is.

"Shit," you hear, assaulting your tired ears. You don't even have the energy to groan. Everything hurts.

+

 

You wrap your hands around your paper coffee cup and sigh. The rumbling of Dirk's pickup truck clashes rudely through your skull. Your nail polish is chipped pearl pink, and your fingertips are throbbing with the juxtaposition of burning hot and ice cold. You marvel at and regret the fact that you are somehow still intact.

"Shit," Dirk swears for the hundredth time this morning. You huddle into your knitted scarf. Steam curls up from your cup like off-kilter whispers.

" _Shit,_ Roxy, it's _Monday._ "

"I know," you mumble.

"Where the hell is your mom, anyway?"

You shrug.

"Shit." This time it's softer, more of an endearment than anything. "I can't keep doing this, Rox. You're like a speeding train."

You don't want to hear this. You attempt to ignore what you already know, but like always at everything, you fail.

+

 

You are starting to form a bit of an obsession with Calliope's ankles.

She wears sturdy sneakers and short, lacy socks, and if she shifts her weight, you can catch a glimpse of dry, chapped skin stretching dubiously over the spherical curve of her bones.

You really think that Calliope should take better care of herself as you peer at her inwardly-turned feet through your mop of blonde hair. Your throbbing head rests in the crook of your elbow, and your eyelashes stick together like grimy papercrafts.

You hazily blink. Calliope should really take better care of her feet. You have lotion at your house, bottles and bottles of scented cream that you've hoarded over the years. Strawberry, lavender... Callie might like the kind that smells like wild rose. You could sit her in the middle of your big, empty bed and dab it on... massage it in with your fingers, and she would giggle because it tickles...

...and now you are kissing her fingertips, swiftly gently sweetly, and her laughter fills your soul with warm, happy bubbles... Your hands hook gently into the warm skin above her clavicle and you are kissing, kissing her thin, soft lips and pressing your mouth to the shadowy skin of the left side of her face with painstaking tenderness...

You peel your eyes open again, and there are Calliope's feet underneath her desk, knocking shyly against one another. You follow the line of her ankle bone up the stretch of her leg, up the long sleeves of her hoodie (you are still hungover enough to think that her small, modest cups of breasts are the cutest things you have ever seen), up the side of her neck to her sweetly curving mouth to her earnest, emerald eyes.

You jolt. Those eyes always manage to shock you with their brilliance, with their sincerity and innocence- _like a child's_ , you reflect, and clammy guilt immediately floods you. Looking at Calliope, you always feel like whatever fantasy you've been concocting, no matter how innocent, is repulsive and vile.

It is too early on a Monday morning for crying in Trigonometry. You hide your face with your scarf and sink even lower in your seat.

A long, dexterous finger taps your shoulder. You reach up to grab the slip of paper from Dirk's hand without looking up.

You bring it into the shady recess under your desk and, pressing your forehead against the cool surface of the table, read. In orange felt-tip, it says: _When are you going to quit dicking around and make a move already?_

You uncap your pink gel pen with your teeth and scrawl back: _i could say the same to you, mr strider ;)_

You pass it to him and watch him glance at the back of Jake's head. _Don't be stupid. It's hopeless._

_then were at a stalemate. :(_

When he reads this last message, you can't see his eyes through the sunglasses he perpetually wears. He leans back in his chair, crumples up the note, and pops it in his mouth. He looks at you, and you breathe a short, puffy laugh as he chews.

+

 

The cafeteria is loud. *LOUD.* You want to bury alive whoever thought making lunchroom walls noise-reflective was a good idea.

You squirm like a cat on the hard bench, scarf wrapping like a boa constrictor around your head. Your faded leggings stick uncomfortably to the backs of your knees. Your head pounds dully.

Jane, as is her Monday tradition, has brought a cake for all of you, bless her. You lick the sky blue, sugary frosting off your fingers and wonder for the billionth time what is wrong with you.

You feel a wide, calloused hand gingerly pat your hair. "Chin up, old sport!" Jake's chipper voice jovially encourages you. "Hangovers can't be all that bad."

"You have no _idea,_ " you groan.

Calliope, next to you, nudges your shoulder. Tingles race through your limbs for a moment, like your body is gasping. "You can have my slice, if you like."

You prop your cheek up on your arm and muster a smile for her- your first of the day. You pat her knee. "No thanks, Callie. Keep your cake."

"Well... all right, then. Her eyebrows squint, and she bites at the corner of her lip.

"Aw, don't worry." You wave your hand around. "I'm fine, you don't need to be so cute about it."

Her cheek flushes a quick, dusty pink, and you feel for a drowsy moment that nothing is wrong, nothing at all.

+

 

From the first time you'd seen Calliope, you've had a nearly uncontrollable urge to mother her.

She transferred this year from California, and you could tell right off she was uncomfortable. She fidgeted with her hoodie and her pressed pants, her face hot with embarrassment.

Her face, well... it's different. More than half of it is covered in a layer of thick, mottled ropes of scar tissue that stretch into the corner of her mouth and twist into her nose. You aren't sure how she'd been burned, but you think it has something to do with the death of her twin brother. She wears wigs to hide her baldness, tries her best to hide it with makeup, and she hates going out in public for fear that people will be repelled by her.

You think she is beautiful.

She has a small body- "petite," you could say- and delicate-short-nailed fingers, and the most extraordinarily green eyes you've ever seen.

You immediately took her in, practically dragging the girl over to your lunch table with Dirk, Jane and Jake. You poked her and hugged her and made sure she ate enough and kept the meaner kids away from her. You want to take her and provide for her and cuddle her and feed her a diet of pure lollipops. You want to fix her jacket and kiss her forehead in the mornings.

And maybe, maybe she would kiss you back.

+

 

When you were a little girl and your mom was away, you would stumble through the house, jumping on the white furniture and playing hide-and-seek with your cats between the curtains. You listened for the hollow click of the door opening- _Mommy!_ \- and buried your face in her skirt.

She always seemed so prettily silent.

+

 

On Tuesday morning, you stroke on dark slashes of eyeliner and sticky blood lipstick. You stare at the girl in your mirror and repeat to her: _Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you are happy._

You feel your face with a pink-nailed hand, soft and distant. You grip at your chest to quell the soreness there, and reach through your tights between your legs. Disgusting, gentle, longing.

You turn away from your reflection.

You don't want to leave, but the honk of Dirk's pickup truck blares through your window. You mime a person who is not exhausted.

+

 

"How many colors of nail polish do you _have?_ Jane marvels as she tucks into her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The echoes of the cafeteria are commonplace vibrations.

"I've seen it," Dirk confirms, nodding. "It's like a rainbow had an orgy in her dresser."

"What would you need it all for?" Jake wonders, his mouth still half-full. "I don't get it... For costumes, maybe? Not that your nails aren't swell!"

You waggle your fingers. "Dirky knows _all_ about the magic of my nail polish, don't ya Di-Stri?"

The other albino shrugs and folds his hands behind his head. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Ain't that right, Callie?"

Calliope startles next to you. "Well, I suppose I wouldn't know."

Jane fakes confusion. "You mean you've never painted your nails?"

_Ohhh no._ You can see where this is going. You widen your eyes at her. She widens hers.

"Then if you ever want to get a damn fine manicure-" Dirk juts his thumb at you- "Roxy here will be glad to do you up real nice. That right?" He raises his pale eyebrows at you a silent and smug _You're Welcome._

"That would be delightful!" Callie exclaims. She beams, her face tinted with happiness.

It takes exactly two seconds for your heart to remember how to beat.

"Sure, that'd be pretty awesome," you find yourself saying.

"Oh, um... when would you like to have me?" She blinks at you. (You catch another quirk in Dirk's eyebrow, and resolve to clobber him later.)

"Saturday good? Like, noonish?"

She nods, still smiling, and your stomach does a backflip.

+

 

On Friday night, you don't sleep; you hyperventilate. You lie awake in bed until midnight, when you pad softly down the wide, carpeted stairs. Shadows are interspersed with skinny blue light. For all the world, the interior of your house is like one, big void.

Your bare feet are cold against the linoleum, and your fingertips glide over the marble countertop. It smells of cleaner and pale air.

You fumble for the bottles you keep under your couch. It's a dumb hiding spot, but it's not like your mom will be looking in the first place.

You don't bother with a glass, pouring red wine straight into your mouth, smacking your lips at the acidity of it rumbling down our throat. You wince and cradle the sloping neck of the bottle as you haul yourself back up the stairs.

You don't keep track of how much you drink in the early, quiet hours; you just get tipsy enough to think, as you drift off to sleep, that the little purple drops on your sheets look like to eyes of an angel of lucidity.

You look into your deepest dreams, the innermost layers of your mind, and past the light, past the glittering, pink stars, you find a terrifyingly bottomless pit. As you float down into it, you soon realize that this void inside you will not end, cannot be filled no matter how you grasp at the tunneling walls.

You want, want yourself to be whole, want yourself.

You are calling into the void, your tiny voice echoing nakedly back at you.

"Calliope... Calliope..."

Her name curls into a spiral winding down into your blind depths, forming miraculous ellipses on the blue internal membrane of your eyelids. Transparent space runs crashing torrents through your veins, and it begins to rain...

+

 

You wake to muffled stains, tangled in your comforter.

Drowsily, you breathe and crane your backwards body to check the time.

_10:54_ , your clock blinks back.

Suddenly, you jump up, falling over yourself to shove your half-finished bottle in a corner of your closet, rushing yourself into a shower. Oh God, oh _fuck_ , you are disgusting.

The water beats down on your shoulders; your heart is a battering ram against the fragile walls of your ribcage.

You towel yourself off, still stumbling as you worry over what to wear. This? Nah, too fancy. That? No, shit Rox, you're not a slut today. Goddamn...

You finally decide on a soft pink top and a lacy shirt. You like the way it looks as you turn yourself in front of your mirror. Your reflection looks gently curved, with black spiderwebs forming intricate links above your knees.

You make sure that your blemishes are covered, your eyes sparkling lightly, and the lack of your lips glossed with a maroon sheen. For once, you leave your neck unadorned. You admire the way you wear your shadows, then remember that humans can't wear shadows, you're not a wizard-y guy with a Herbert-y name, and you're being stupid.

When you check your clock again, it's 11:32, and you don't know how to kill the time you have left.

You trip downstairs. Oh, look, you got the bottle from your closet, haha, whoopsies.

You cram a banana past your lips and sip nervously from the bottle. Your foot kicks the leg of your table in a furious, four-syllable rhythm: _Call-eye-oh-pee, Call-eye-oh-pee._ You stare at the door.

Finally, you see her familiar silver car pull hesitantly up your driveway, and you burst out of the front door, sweeping her into your arms as she emerges.

Released inhibitions are marvelous things.

She smells like soap and warmth, Light catches her eyes and divides then into small worlds and galaxies that harmonize and reflect into your own.

"Roxy?"

"Hey!" You grin and drag her through your door. You barely resist from twirling.

"Roxy..." She looks at you skeptically.

You stomach plummets. "Mhm?"

"Pardon me, but..." She glances furtively around your house, her eyes settling on the stiff, white couch. "... you aren't... _inebriated..._ for this encounter, are you?"

It hits you in the gut.

"I-I'm sorry!" she exclaims. "I didn't mean-"

"Nah, 'sokay." You fake a painful smile and plop back down on your chair. You try not to gawk. She's in your house _. In your house._ "You like anything? Food, milk? We have juice."

"She swallows. "It's all right."

The silence is so thick that it sticks to the back of your tongue like syrupy sludge.

"Well... anyway!" you finally manage, "why don't you come upstairs? Like Dirk said, you really should get your nails painted."

She looks relieved. "Okay. Wonderful. Lovely."

You resist the urge to take her hand as you show her the way up the stairs, down the hall, and into your room. She peers around at everything: your bed, covered in pillows and stuffed cats (you couldn't bear to throw them away), the view from your window, the jumbled stacks of novels you like to keep everywhere. You have four copies of _Complacency of the Learned._ Scattered all around the carpet are pages filled with your own handwriting and doodles- ramblings both drunk and sober, ridiculous and slightly sad at turns.

You rummage through your dresser, carefully turning a hundred shades of paint. Some are full, barely used, and some are crusty and shallow. Your nail polish reminds you of your friends, in a way: some are bright, some are gentle, some are dark... all different, but all pretty. And each one will look the best on someone somewhere. That thought comforts you. The world is this small, this perfect, and you can hold it in your hands and pick out your favorite bits.

"What color do you want?" you ask.

"Oh, um... I'm not really sure..." You keep searching through the clacking bottles. "Do you have grey? Or, oh! Maybe green would be nice. I'm sorry, I've never done something like this before."

You pull up. "Don't worry about it; I've got just the thing!" You turn to her, holding up a polish you picked up a couple months ago. It's pale green, not quite as vibrant as her eyes, with swirls of silvery sparkles scattered throughout like the Milky Way.

You pat the chair at your dresser. "Come on, Callie, sit right down. Does this one look good?"

She smiles. "Oh, that's very nice."

You feel now that you can start breathing again, despite the tingling flutters warming your chest.

She sits down, shifting her weight. You screw off the top of the bottle, and with a slightly trembling hand, take hers. The pads of her fingers feel cool and smooth. You hope she doesn't hear the catch in your breath. You gingerly dip the brush into the bottle and begin to stroke on the liquid green- starting in the middle of her index finger and working outwards. You adjust her hand as you go along. Her knuckles feel round and delicate.

"It looks lovely," she breathes, admiring the way her nails glitter. They seem to shine and ripple in the light.

She sits on your bad while waiting or them to dry. You fetch yourself a margarita and begin to feel that yes, this is something good, something you can do. As you sit across from her, making small talk and watching her giggle, your heart swells so much in your chest you think it might pop. The tenderness you are feeling almost brings tears to your eyes, and it's ridiculous that one person can make you feel this much care. Each breath you take, you want her in your oxygen, you want her soul in your bloodstream.

"Calliope... Calliope," you end up saying.

"What is it?"

You shake your head. "I forgot." and you laugh a bit too loudly, but she laughs with you, so that's fine, and your feet feel soft, and you _like_ this.

"You eyes are, like... like, almond-shaped, I guess? Like green almonds."

Her laugh is giddy, breathy.

"What gives _you-"_ you point your finger- "the right to be so. Goshdarned. _Cute,_ Callie?" You boop her on the nose.

"Well, I'm not so sure about..."

"Nuh-uh." You scoot closer, and with a little difficulty, put your finger on her lips. "You shut that noise. Goddamn, you're motherfudging gorgeous, like..." You take her hand in yours, watching it sparkle. "We fit, right? We fit just right, and I..." Your fingers fumble together, and you lean your head into the crook of her neck. "Woah."

"Roxy?"

"Mhm?"

"You're drunk."

"Not _that_ drunk."

"Would you like to take a nap? Or maybe watch a movie? Let's get some rest, okay?"

"Uh-uh." You breathe deeply. "Wanna be with Callie and hug and stuff."

She pats your head.

She smells like discount shampoo and also lavender and cigarette smoke and things that make you sleepy. Her neck looks pale and blurrily clean. It's dusted with flour, and you want to taste it, so you do. You feel more than hear the catch in her breath.

You put on hand behind her head, the other on her waist. You're holding her, and you _want_ to press your body against her own because you love her so much that it _hurts..._

She tastes salty and milky. She is soft.

"Roxy..." She's gasping.

"Shushie-pie," you mumble.

Your travel down her body, your knees getting tangled here and there, and put your thumb at the hem of her hoodie, exposing her hipbone. It rises and falls, forming a little valley above the waistband of her jeans. You put your mouth there, right on that smooth skin, grazing the denim, and you can't help but groan against her skin. You love the way she feels, you love the way her abdomen rises, sinks, and trembles flush against you. You love the way you lose yourself; you want to devour her, drink her in and hold her inside you.

You're practically chewing on her. She's sweet. You forget closing your eyes, but you feel and not see the way her stomach tightens. Your hand is flat down her middle, glides down to the zipper of her jeans, and your palm fits so snuggly between her legs, and you _want..._

"Roxy," she gasps. "Roxy, please stop..."

You cringe, screwing your yes even tighter, your lips sliding against her bones. "Just... shh, I promise this can be nice, I promise I... I just really, _really_..."

She shudders, and the intimacy of the way her body curls around you is overwhelmingly dizzying.

" _Roxy."_

You half-open your eyes. Her hipbone is pink and smeared with charcoal.

"Roxy, please just stop."

"But..." You can't stop staring at her flesh.

"Look, I... I _can't."_

The words float sluggishly through your ears and curl poisonously around you brain.

"I-I think I'd better go," they say.

You wrap your arms around her back, burying your face in her belly, holding her like a teddy bear. Your shoulders wrack as you hold back sobs. "Don't _leave_ ," you choke. "I just, I _really."_

"I know, Roxy,” she says. "But not today, all right? I just... I can't. I’m sorry." Her tone is soothing, but somehow so distressed, and you can't...

You cry and cry into her, pouring your heart out for reasons you can't explain. When she does leave, stroking your hair one last time before she does, you have never felt so cold and lonely. You pretend that your blankets are her and burrow into them, still making strangled, gross noises and raining torrents from your eyes. Your comforter is unwelcoming and empty of Calliope.

+

 

"I cannot fucking _believe_ ," you moan into Dirk's shoulder, "that I could be so _stupid."_

"Hm."

You lean against him and swig your third margarita of the night. It's awfully bitter. You punish yourself with the taste. "God, I _hate_ myself; what was I _thinking?"_

"I dunno, Rox."

Your eyes make the TV screen blurry and sick. It pulses and glows out of the darkness out of the 2 AM darkness. You can always count on Dirk. Always count on him. "You're such a great guy," you mumble aloud, and choke down another swallow. The screen flickers. His shoulder is hard but familiar and hot against your ear.

"Thanks."

"I wish I still had the hots for you and you weren't, like, a flaming homko or anything."

He helps to prop you up, wrapping the blanket more tightly around you. His arm wraps around your shoulders in a remembrance of comfort. Your chest hurts. Your everything hurts. You sigh. _My name is Inigo Montoya,_ he mouths along with the movie. _You killed my father. Prepare to die._

You stare at nothing. It's all your fault, fault, fault. "I really love her, though."

"I know."

"I just wanted to make her _happy_ , and I fucked _up_ , Dirky, I fucked up _so, so bad._ "

"I know."

You drink for a while with your eyes closed. You hear a vague clicking noise, and pull yourself up to see Dirk lighting a cigarette. The orange glows like a firefly in the deep, satin dark.

"I thought you quit," you say dumbly.

He breathes out. The silver smoke curls around the darkness like a forgotten lover, and you find it excruciating. You find everything excruciating.

"Aranea asked out Jake."

"Oh."

"He said yes."

"Oh, Dirk, that sucks." He has his shades on despite the darkness, or perhaps _to_ spite it. You never know with him, and your fondness tugs at your heartstrings for him. You do love him, really, just as he loves you. "That really, really, sucks."

He finally removes them, setting them slowly, slowly down on the coffee table. He places the steeple of his fingers to his lips. What he says is, "Meenah's fucking pissed."

You finish off your martini. You just pick up the vodka bottle and keep drinking, straight. You're burning in the flames of your guilt.

Somehow, you end up straddling his lap and making out. You shut your eyes and suck him in, and he just lets you, occasionally adjusting your shoulders so you don't fall off of him and reminding you to breathe. You mash your lips onto his like he's a prayer and your tongues are rosaries.

It's just skin.

You fall asleep to the sounds of true love and _as you wish._ He props you up and pats you on the shoulder. You want to wait for light. You want to drown yourself.

+

 

When your mom had late-night book signings, she used to bring you along, and you would laugh at the words the people used: _Mommy, what 'nihilistic' mean? What's a-pocko-lipstick?_ She took you out for midnight dinners of fries and burgers and chocolate shakes, and you drew Calmasis on all your paper napkins.

You never understood why it stopped, why she stopped holding parties with tall, sophisticated people with tall, sophisticated wines and started leaving you to care for the house alone. You thought for a long time that plane tickets were evil.

You poured liquor on paper and watched it burn.

+

 

The weekend is a horrible, nauseous haze that slides past you without warning or sign. You ache with biting ferocity that you are much too tired for. You don't want to fight it. You pray for it to stab you in the heart and kill you. Everything is gunshots.

On Monday morning, Jake is picking you up from your place on the floor and holding you close to him. You wrap your arms around his neck and let him carry you to Jane's neat, cherry car. They're waiting for you there. Jane puts her hand on your forehead, and you kiss her cheek gratefully. Her coat hugs your arms. She's a sweetie, she really is, and you tell her so.

Dirk is the one driving, as usual. He and Jane make small talk with Jake, asking him all about his date with Aranea. ("How did it go?" "It was quite nice, I suppose. We talked a lot. Well, she talked, mostly, she's a rather chatty gal, if I say so myself, not that I mind..." "Did she pop your cherry?" "Excuse me?!") You mouth the cold, frosty windowpane and watch the way your breath frosts in midair. You are separate, but with them. You keep your hands tucked under your knees.

They bring you to a coffee shop. You manage to thank them for not forcing you to go to school, and they're fine with it, of course, whatever you need, Roxy. The smells and sights of coffee and red-brown sink into your skeleton and warm you. The coffee they bring you is hot and spicy with chocolate and cinnamon. You swallow it eagerly, quenching your pain.

You lie your head down on the table. The chatter lulls you.

You hear the quiet scrape of the chair across from you, and someone sitting down. "Hey," you say sleepily. "Hey, thanks, really, this coffee is awesome." You breathe a soft laugh. "So early..."

The someone breathes back. "It's afternoon."

You jolt, but your eyes keep closed. You recognize the voice. You'd recognize it anywhere, the way it blows through your mind like windchimes. You are too afraid to speak, but you crawl your right hand across the table, waiting for a response.

Sure enough, another hand reaches out to greet yours. You imagine the two meeting on a street corner, shaking themselves with unfamiliarity and skinny love.

You open your yes, and she is there. She's here, with you, eyebrows furrowed and mouth small and tight.

"I'm sorry," you stutter. It slips out of your mouth unbidden. "Callie, I'm so sorry."

Her hand squeezes yours. "Please don't be."

Your fingers tighten around hers. You feel that this is the last time, may be the last time you ever lay eyes on her. "I'm tellin' the truth, you gotta believe me, I never wanted to-" You can feel the tears stinging your already-sore eyes, and you bite down on your lip. The singer on the cafe radio strums on your ribs, singing into your cores and vibrating in your teeth. "I..."

Her voice is so soft that you want to sleep in it. "Roxy, you have to know that I care for you very much."

You're _not_ crying. You're _not._

"I... I do love you," she continues, and she swallows. This isn't real. You want to laugh. This isn't real at all, this is all very, very mean. "For a long time, now."

You finally look directly into her eyes, searching desperately for truth. You don't want her sympathy. You don't want her kind-heartedness and generosity right now, because this must be all some huge joke that is designed to crush you.

She scoots her chair over so that it's next to yours, and coaxes your head up to her shoulder. She rubs your arm with her hand. The bustling of everyone else seems to form a bubble around the two of you, and you want to keep it this way: perfect, unadulterated.

"I think... I think I'd like to try this," she tells you, and you can hear the anxiety in her voice.

You sigh. "Callie, you don't have to. It was my fault, not yours."

She puts her hand on your head firmly. "I'm serious. When have I ever lied to you?"

You straighten up and regard her. You could list a multitude of fibs confessed mere hours later, but you know somewhere in your truest heart she would never lie about something like this. She isn’t cruel enough, doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She's sincere, you can see that much. "You haven't."

She strokes your cheek with her thumb. "See?"

You chance a half-smile. Her lips turn up encouragingly, and you find yourself grinning without realizing it.

She places her hand back on yours. She's so small. "I need to take it slow," she says, "and you need to... to control yourself a little bit."

Your cheeks flush, and you nod vigorously.

"I can help you," she continues. "I just want to help you. I know you can stop if you try..."

You nod again. "Can I just... hug you?"

She opens her arms, and you fit into them. It lifts you. "I love the way you smell," you say.

"Yes."

You both know what the other means.

+

 

When you were a little girl, you help hands with stuffed animals and drank hot cocoa on cold days. You tried to keep fairies in jars, and made wishes and sang songs. You remember now, you loved the color green.

+

 

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you aren't alone anymore.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
